Greatly enamored of the guy with the shovel. Such presence of mind. I like to think if I had been there I'd have risen to the occasion similarly, brandishing a convenient farm implement with one hand, my pistachio ice cream cone with the other, calmly presiding over the sat upon perp while puffing resolutely on a strengthening Nat Sherman filterless. I would have terrified absolutely all that I surveyed. Of course, none would've been the wiser that I was needing the shovel to improve my balance which has been compromised rather badly by my not having QUITE yet emerged from hibernation. Also they couldn't have realized how decrepitly arthritis has me in its grip, not to mention I would opportunely not have whined to the scene at large about my broken or at least contused rib I suffered just last month on Darwin Day and am nowhere near recovered yet from. So, all considered I do wish I'd been there, as it would've been so satisfying to frighten strangers with good reason. 

I shall have to settle for having got to yell at a gal at the grocery store the other day. I had parked my purchases in the cart on the sidewalk and was lugging them from the curb to my hatchback, when I turned back to the cart from one trip there was a young woman helping herself to the remaining groceries in my basket. I was inflamed. This was food we were talking about here (or more accurately weren't, as she appeared from pretty much out of the blue), so you can see why I'd get protective and belligerent over that. "Hey!" I bellowed out in no uncertain terms. Then she turned around and schlepped my canned beans to my car trunk for me, took her ear buds out and explained she was trying to give me a hand with the heavy lifting. Fuck. Do you think she could've asked first, or at least made eye contact before living my life for me? As kindly as she meant it she had no way of knowing she would not be giving some poor geriatric a cardiac at thinking they were being ripped off.

What an awkward age I am and have always been I must say . . .

 

Here's a little whine I tasted several years ago at a restaurant's wine dispensary. All you had to do was slide your wine card through a slot and put your glass under a spigot and depress the corresponding button to your choice. Pretty cool, I like vending machines, but the old fashioned way of accessing booze is still good too, now that I've finally learned how to do it.

 

Dr. Loosen’s Wurzgarten

 

Six brick pavement circles

--winter wilted palms between—

each with its gaggle of empty iron chairs,

except for one with only one there

where the late sun nestles, of all places.

 

Two glasses of Riesling, one for myself

--one waits for my promised lover—

after all these years he is yet sure and true,

both pitiless and fair.

He and I will always have our courtyard ways

and I will want him all my days.

 

Ghost children, dream children, come to me!

 

Remember now that spiked-blond son from the Far East,

timid and intrepid turn by turn,

or that second girl-child,

whispering earnestly away to no-one.

Call up if you can that once and future

street waif with her face pressed to the wind.

 

There is water in the basin but the fountain’s still.

Leaves that are dry and fallen gather eddying and shy,

then dart out from the wall for all to see—

they are like children rushing toward me.

 

Thursday, December 07, 2006

 

 

 

Unfortunately for the rest of you, I’ve decided to keep it to myself.

Once when my dad was in grade school one of his teachers inflicted the curriculum on her pupils of inspecting their cuticles once a week. She made them let her dig them back toward the base of their nails with a miniature shovel designed for the purpose, until the little white crescents there were rawly and painfully exposed. She only mutilated their fingers thusly, not their toes, luckily, but I wouldn’t put it past her if she’d ever thought to, but she prob’ly never did is all, is what I’m guessing. (Never trust a teacher ‘til you CAN’T see the whites of their nails.) I am surprised she never drilled them in the task of doing HER nails for HER. I’ll bet she would’ve been thrilled if she had lived to see the day, as I have, when the Walmart beauty salon near here ran a special on pedicures, that saw a line of chairs of middle-aged gals like her being ministered obsequiously to by a line of kneeling teen-aged boys. If she had lived that long, that much bliss would almost certainly have killed her, ‘cause it can you know, so I’m glad that she died prob’ly several decades earlier anyway.

That was the teacher that made them all choose Native American names to go by when they learned about the settlers, and expanding the frontier. So Dad chose to be nicknamed “Deer Legs”, which made everybody laugh at him, though no one could tell him why, and he went to his old age death still wondering why, as well as why all of the health vigilantism was needed against so desperately pacific an encroacher as the harmless cuticle. I’ll go to mine not ever knowing either, I suppose.

I do know that one should never trim one’s nails indoors, as the clippings inevitably will go flying everywhere, and making the worst kind of mess. Well, perhaps not the VERY worst, but still they do fly wild some. Once I knew a gal, a nurses’ aide, she was cutting off the toenails of a man so old he couldn’t reach or even see so far to do the job himself. And, well, my friend did not remember not to jabber the whole time, so one of the clippings landed down her throat where it lodged for quite a little while and made her choke.

Also one should not let one’s nails fall off accidentally while indoors, either, as that happened to me once, one of my fingernails, I think it was my thumbnail actually, my left one (but it might’ve been my right one, I have to be honest. Hard to tell, my memory cuts out on me now and again, it does). Anyway, it snagged off when it bumped against the table edge while I was at a party at a friend’s. And when it fell off it landed underneath the table. That a lot of the guests were sitting around while talking volubly. Well, politeness overcame me, and not wanting to be a bad guest by littering our friend’s home with my nasty unretrieved personal biologic waste, I ducked my head under the table searching for the nail. As luck would have it this caught the attention of our host, who grilled me as to my intentions underneath his tablecloth. A profound silence fell as apparently the company at large were also keen to know an explanation for my quest and posture. There was nothing for it but to abandon the errant shred and sit up and confess. Whereupon I was laughed at mercilessly by all, I’m not sure why, but the likelihood is it was because they were all jealous that their hygiene standards were all so much less responsible than mine.

Of course, since you’ll want to go outdoors for all your manicuring needs, it’s wise to settle somewhere in the first place where the outdoors cannot be gainsaid, for more of a year-round basis than is reasonable here. I mean not cutting your nails for a good nine months each year is a bit long for best comfort. (It’s not advisable to bathe here either, even indoors, even with hot water, except in summer, ‘cause it’s just too cold until evaporation is complete after the toweling off.)

Hygiene can be dangerous in any locality, and at any ambition level, but especially when carried to excessive lengths for purposes of beauty and/or romance. So I really must caution in the strongest terms against grooming for mere vanity. I’m sure we’ve all got ancestors or close associates who, like my husband’s old great grandpa, was paring his toenails one day so they’d fit inside his ranch boots, when he nicked soft tissue, took gangrene, and lost his leg to amputation. Then there is the temptation of keeping constantly clipped out of consideration (or sheer dumb hope) for one’s partner during sex. This is understandably alluring in prevention of unsightly ankle lacerations, or the always problematic clawmarks down the spine. But, just keep your socks on, socks are quite protective in the nuptial lair (or its equivalent), I’ve learned to my relief. Not sure what can be done about the fingernailmarks, as one would surely not want to wear mittens during intimacy. But, some overzealous nailbiting can be chanced in the interests of companionship, no doubt; and I am assured by one who has reason to know, that the everpresent scratches on my back are without fail caused by my haircomb having way too sharp of teeth as I yank it through my way too long of hair.

Another trend in beauty procedures—besides that of available male pedicure slaves—is the brisk trade in eyelash extractions. I’m not kidding, I saw a sign outside a beauty shop here recently, that promised they could provide said service for their customers. As mentioned before, I will go to my grave, etcetera and etcetera.

Lest you think I am unduly harsh in my suspicions re the motivations, impulsiveness, and thoughtless risky mania of all hygienists, I will leave you with one example I have heard of that was truly noble. I think it took place in Devon, in the 1800’s sometime. A case of persistent public exfoliation, but for the greater good, wherein a schoolmaster with a condition known as “chalky gout”, his school being too underfunded to afford any chalkboard chalk, he simply rubbed the pads of his fingertips against the blackboard and the tissues sloughing off there formed the letters and the numbers necessary to instruction. Hopefully he kept his nails down to the quick—otherwise the scratching noises would’ve been distracting from the children learning a whole lot.

Short story that I wrote many years ago        

Theobald Crown McFurlong had always been proud of his name and reputation. He was eighty-two years old and as spry as chit-chat. He was a member in good standing with several community organizations, although, sadly, by now, many of them were no longer operative. He belonged to the chamber of commerce, the Knights of Pythias, and a dwindling grange. He was a staunch Republican, and a churchgoer. He sang tenor for the choir every Wednesday, and twice on Sundays, and he bowled Tuesdays and Thursdays. He resurrected, commemorated, constituted, every year, the old-timers’ Prune Festival, cultivating in his back yard half-a-dozen Italian prune trees; displaying seasonally all his yellowing Prunarian memorabilia in a showcase in his storefront just off Main Street; sporting a dusty straw bowler and lapel pins, handing out tracts and free fruit in the little park downtown, in lieu of the long discontinued annual parade.

                Theobald was devoted to the groups he joined—he loved the rules, and regulations; and the rules and regulations seemed made for him. He owned his own business outright, had done so since he was a teenager. He handed round the puddings, or the bingo cards, alternate Mondays at a nursing home; supervised the renting of the grange hall for weddings and reunions; deployed signs and banners for his favorites, at election time. He kept his voice in tune with the disciplined imbibing of a (non-alcoholic) tonic of his own concoction. Once per Festival, his sister inserted herself into formal regalia, accepted his homemade corsage of prune leaves and miniature roses, and insisted on dining with him at the Chicken-Fried Steak-House, thereby reprising her one-time role as Princess of Prunarians.

Theo was a lifelong bachelor, and his sister, Audrey, never married either. They lived together in the big turn-of-the-century house downtown that they’d been born into. Both were virgins, and frankly, never had considered being otherwise. They adhered fondly to the strictures of their denomination. Only once did Theo flirt with rebellion. When he was in his forties an assistant pastor took to sermonizing against card-games and bowling alleys. Theo made one or two surreptitious visits to the Lutheran services uptown, before his own pastor moved on to other vices. Playing cards and gambling held no allure for Theo, but he did enjoy maintaining his handicap at ten-pins.

Tonight was Thursday, free-game night, for those who made their average. And Theobald hardly ever didn’t. Tonight would be no different. If he hurried he would only be a little late. The boys would let him double-turn until he caught his frames up. He slammed the trunk shut on the Lincoln, lifted his bowling bag into the back door, driver’s side. He locked the alley entrance to his barber shop, and set off for the Thunder Lanes.

He was tired, though. He’d had a long afternoon of it, today, only three customers. Well, four, counting the one after Audrey’d gone home. That had been the tough one. He should have closed the shop up early when he realized who it was. Maybe he was just too old for that kind of job, anymore. If he sold the storefront, and just worked for free out of the house, to accommodate his regulars, maybe the tips would cover his few expenses. He didn’t really need the money. Already he had curtailed his hours, never putting in a morning shift, these days. And ever since Audrey had retired from her nursing, and insisted on “helping out” down at the shop, business had been falling off anyway--but he didn’t have the heart to try to dissuade her.

He wondered how many of his clients he’d be keeping, if he made the move. All of his afternoon “heads” had happened to be regulars, until the last. And that one would not require his services again, ever, that’s for sure. But Ottawa Trothsky, who’d been first up, waiting for them when they got there, would insist on his weekly trim until his dying day, whether or not he needed it, and would brag without fatigue over his wartime exploits, while Theo made convincing clipping noises overhead. Today’s story had been the one in which Otto claimed he’d knocked Omar Bradley’s tooth out, during a boxing match at military college. Theo had heard it all before, though, and so he gritted his own teeth, and tuned Otto out, quietly humming several of his favorite hymns instead. Theo had been called up too, to serve, during the Second War, for all he was older than the other men. Audrey sat on the draft board, at the time, though, and effectively quashed his aspirations. He’d had a mild scoliosis all his life. It never had troubled him, but apparently it looked impressive on the doctors’ charts.

Head number two might possibly be counted on, to follow Theo loyally into his retirement. Though he was younger than Theo by a generation, Principal Mallard had long ago retired, himself. Now that had been an interesting case—one for the medical books—in Theo’s estimation. Mr. Mallard had been in charge of a grade school that was flattened by a tornado—while the children and the staff were there in full attendance. It was a freakish incident. They almost never had windstorms of that nature in these parts. Even more astounding was the fact they had sustained absolutely no fatalities. But in the succeeding weeks the growth that had adorned the principal (who’d been a healthy and a natural brunet, Theo was certain--not a trace of salt and pepper, even)—the hair that Theo’d had the privilege of trimming for almost all of the younger man’s life had rapidly turned as white as chalk. Theo had been assured, since then, by various authorities, that such phenomena were purely mythical, and he wished a thousand times, if he wished it once, he’d had the presence of mind when it happened to save his floor sweepings for evidence.

He wasn’t sure if his third customer would be back again, in any case, whether or not he changed locales. Molly Ricky had brought her Jordan in, for his twice-yearly crew. It was the first time she’d been there with Audrey on the premises, and Molly seemed more than usually timid, in her presence. She hovered near the showcase, politely interested in the McFurlongs’ trophies. She kept shifting her weight, crossing her ankles or pointing her toes inward as though ill at ease. Finally Audrey asked her if she needed to use the restroom.

“Oh—er—oh!” Molly stammered. She blushed profusely, hesitated for a moment, and then turned and scurried in the direction indicated. Theo was inclined to think the woman hadn’t, in fact, required such aid, but had been too embarrassed by the confrontation to refuse it. Theo and Audrey both knew Molly—but only slightly—from way back. She was Molly Eunander before she married, and all the Eunander children had at one time attended the same church as the McFurlongs.

Theo could remember cutting Molly’s older brother’s hair, when he was younger than the nephew Jordan was right now. He used to tease Albert, whenever he came in for a trim, because invariably, Theo would discover markings on his scalp, over the left ear, where the boy had kept his pencil, or a pen, while studying. And although he knew it wasn’t true, Theo always would accuse him of having a tattoo already, at his young age, just to see him blush. Theo had liked the boy, had enjoyed seeing him growing up so fine and strong—as he had enjoyed others, before and since, whose progress into manhood he had witnessed. For awhile, as Albert went unmarried, Theo thought he could detect in him some similarity of character that had marked his own career, and he felt a rush of pride with each new proof of Albert’s resistance to the pull of matrimony. But that was before he found out Albert had taken up with Eric Beauchamp, and Eric was well known by then for his proclivities.

When Molly returned from the facility Audrey immediately addressed her: “You’re Molly Ricky aren’t you?”

Molly admitted as much, but reluctantly, Theo thought. Her eyes were casting desperately about her for some distraction, but Audrey was relentless. “And I suppose this must be your little boy--what was his name, dear?”

“Jordan,” Molly murmured, adding, “Yes, I remember now. You used to work in Dr. Carlson’s office, and I brought Jordan there for all his baby shots.”

“I surely did,” Audrey answered. “My goodness, he certainly seems to have thrived under your care.” Her tone implied she found that not only a surprising outcome, but an unpleasant one, as well.

Jordan was oblivious to tone, but, as an almost-ten-year-old, objected altogether to the topic of his infancy. He deftly changed the subject. “Are we almost done yet?” he asked, bluntly, and he hitched his shoulders irritably. His unswept neck above the nylon cape was beginning to prickle. He started kicking idly against the footboards of the barber chair, and picking at a fraying patch of vinyl repair tape on the armrest. Theo hurried.

When they were gone, Audrey rose with decision from her chosen prominence at his antique scrolltop. “Baby shots, my eye,” she stated flatly. “Dr. Carlson only saw the baby once, for an emergency. If I remember correctly, Dr. Henna, at the Women’s Clinic, was their regular physician.” The old woman accomplished a series of sniffs, which ended in a sort-of bark—an interlude that passed for laughter in her meager repertoire of humor. “She brought the child in all in a dither one afternoon. The poor baby’s penis was swollen and discolored. Turned out one of her own long hairs had somehow wrapped itself around the base of it—cut off the circulation, I guess, like a rubber-band around a cat’s tail.”

Theobald’s mouth dropped open, and then he swallowed nervously. “Oh, there was no permanent damage done, fortunately,” Audrey soothed him. But she didn’t sound overly glad of it, and she left herself, soon afterwards, to squeeze in some extra practice on the Wurlitzer at church.

Theo dusted the display case, swept, and got the mop out. He pulled the café shutters closed, and latched them. He was starting for the doorway to lock up, when his final client stepped inside. “You got time to take just a little off the top for me, before you close?” the young man asked him, grinning.

And so Theo seated him, cranking the chair down, tying the neck-cord snugly to secure the gown. His hands were trembling, and he began to sing as he worked, barely audible, at first, but louder with each passing stanza: “Must I be carried to the skies On flow’ry beds of ease, While others fought to win the prize, And sailed thro’ bloody seas? Are there no foes for me to face? Must I not stem the flood? Is this vile world a friend to grace, To help me on to God?”

The singing calmed him. “Almost done here, son,” he volunteered. He reached quickly down into the cabinet behind him. “Just let me grab my little hand-vac, and I’ll have you cleaned up in no time.” Theo’s grip was sure and his bowler’s arm was steady. With one clean stroke of sixteen pounds of slate-gray graphite Theobald Crown McFurlong smote and delivered his enemy, out of the strangling bonds of sin. Gently, then, he monitored the young man’s pulse until it stopped, then lifted the barber’s cape, wrapped it cleanly up around Eric Beauchamp’s bloodsoaked head, carried him back to the storage room, so he could tuck him quickly into the trunk of the Lincoln, when he’d finished with the mopping. Later on, after sundown, he would drive out to the lake bridge, and dispose of him. As he swabbed at the worn linoleum, he sang once more: “God send us men of steadfast will, Patient, courageous, strong and true; With vision clear and mind equipped, His will to learn, His work to do. God send us men alert and quick His lofty precepts to translate, Until the laws of Right become The laws and habits of the State.”

But as he polished his bowling ball, the three fingerholes put him forcibly in mind again of Eric. Eric with his staring eyes, and mouth, that last instant, in the mirror. Eric and the others, too, in recent years, who’d happened in all unaware that he’d been watching them, waiting for them, doing the best that he could with them, all on his own. And he was tired, so tired, and old, now, and there was no one to take his place. 

Disclaimer: No, in all reality I don't think this poorly of virgins, republicans, bingo players, or what have you. I mostly wanted to pick on the crappy hymnal lyrics that abound so, such that most people don't even really notice how crappy they are.

(This post prompted by--and for the purpose of proving her wrong--my kind friend O., who scolded me recently for ‘squandering’ my writing, and who also informed me that chickens can live up to 15 years or so. Which I truly had not known before-I’d thought the oldest they could get to be was around 5. And, I mean, it was quite the blow to learn that, if you know what I mean.)

 

The observation for today is that people get increasingly selfish as they age. I think that they sort of have to just to keep on surviving. I used to think the converse was true—that old people get more and more selfless and nurturing of others, until they finally give of themselves so much that they die from having nothing left to give.

Then some time ago I encountered an old lady selling plums in her front yard. I admired the independence of her venture, and wanted to help her eke out such a fine upstanding living, so I stepped inside the picket gate to buy a couple cartons. She steered me to a section of her wares, displayed on a foldout card table, and told me those were the sweetest, ripest plum cartons she had on offer, and they did look good, so consequently those plums were the very plums I bought. When I got them home I found out that only the topmost layer of plums in the cartons were at all good plums, every single one of the underneath plums was thoroughly rotten. It was outright and deliberate deception, tantamount to robbery. That old woman might as well have stepped outside her gate, attacked me with her cane and stolen my purse in honest thievery, in broadmost-est (for here) daylight, on a trammeled public roadside, while my sweet little daughter stood by in shock and awe.

It’s perfectly true that only the good die young. And I will venture that only the good die old as well. I’ll bet that old gal prob’ly had a couple dozen grandkids at the time and that was fifteen or more years ago, and still she clung on selfishly and exploitatively to life. She’s prob’ly got three or four times that many descendants as of this writing and she’s most likely clinging still, using up health care like it grows on trees. Her house is certainly still there, showing zero indication it has undergone a change of management. And really, once you’ve got some grandkids, you just owe it to them, and to the greater good, to go ahead and die yourself with some due promptness, in my view anyway. Shove on over, old fart, make some room. (And I want grandkids!)

Oh well, perhaps I can solve all that some other day. Right now I have to spend pretty much the rest of the day, emptying out an old and very sensibly-sized wallet-style purse of its contents, and organizing those into the new, unreasonably commodious, yet still quite a bit slimmer than a doctor’s bag, square-bottomed purple sling satchel I purchased for replacement. It’s a pretty girly way to kill my time, I know, and for that and other good reasons I disapprove quite heartily of me for doing it. But on the other hand much of the process will incorporate some fairly vigorous mourning elements re the demise and premature wasting of the old purse, which has really only split its seams out in one or two places so far, and incurred just the one replacement strap for so far--the metal hasp of which has only in recent months begun to not hold so completely and reliably fastlike; and the which therefore quite a bit of good could still be got out of, the whole dear thing. And so, since grieving and bemoanst-ing me each and everyone of my miniscule losses is pretty much the sum of my expertise in life, you can rest assured I will excel this afternoon, and proceed to revel in me championing me for doing something as ultimately and undeniably LIFE AFFIRMING as changing out one’s handbag is!

===

Continued with details of why Becky Watson is permanently banned from Randi.org in the un-Spruz-mangled version here -

http://greylining.wordpress.com/2011/07/31/pz-myers-and-rebecca-watson-leadership-by-example/

These are the people YOU allow to represent you in the public space.

Bird Blind

Goofy little story from my college years. So, okay that’s how dated it is. I’d taken a poetry writing class a couple quarters earlier. The prof had liked my poems. (I don’t think I read any of his poems until in later years, though he was a published poet. I tended not to want to bother reading other people’s poetry. I’m pretty conceited about my own poems and didn’t want to waste my time with lesser works.) The prof was short and round with a white crew cut. He was probably around thirty years older than me. I really liked him as a person. Hey, he liked my poems, so why on earth wouldn’t I?

So one fine afternoon when I was wandering around downtown I ran into him somewhere on Railroad St. Railroad street was right next to the record store. You couldn’t not go near Railroad street if you wanted to prowl any of the shops there really. So we said hello. He pretended to be interested in what my current classes were. I pretended that I didn’t find such chitchat awkward. All of a sudden he asked me if I wanted to get in his van and go out birdwatching with him.

Now, these were the years of the famous Hillside Strangler. I have to say my personal welfare did just cross my mind. The professor smelled of wine, which probably wasn’t in his favor. But he did have an actual pair of binoculars slung around his neck, and well what the heck I like birds too and would like to see the wildlife refuge. And I was pretty sure the refuge’s topography was marsh and flats with almost certainly no Hillsides. So we climbed in the front seats of his van. And as we did so I could not help noticing he had a full size naked and stained mattress spread out in the back. So I looked at it very pointedly, then turned to him and stared directly in his eyes and asked if he was planning to behave himself. That embarrassed him. I immediately regretted that I’d asked. He didn’t deserve the implication and it was unfair and stupid and paranoid and ridiculous of me to make it. If he had deserved it, the question would’ve been completely ineffective as deterrent. Therefore, utterly pointless. Can’t remember what he said, but we went ahead out to the reserve, where we saw some birds. Geese, ‘cause it is a flyway I think, but there were some smaller birds he had been watching through the season, flitting in a bush beside a rail fence, and he got his camera out to take their pictures.

Before long he asked me, could he take some pics of me as well. Sure okay, I was never photogenic but whatever, guess it takes all kinds. So I’m standing there against the bush with birds in it and he is snapping away. I’m wearing my bib denim overalls with a short sleeved tee shirt underneath. And I’m wearing my hair in sort of a ‘20’s style flapper bob, but maybe a bit shorter, though still not really what could’ve been considered butch. And so after five minutes or so he stops and puts the lens cap on, examines my face with a piercing artists’ eye then gruffly spits out, “You have just the right amount of masculinity.”

Clunk. I sensed somehow that it was a compliment? But still. I mean professor, way to go there cranking up the awkward on the chitchat. I believe he mentioned my jawline. Really, Bob. I bet you say that to all the girls.

Rest of the jaunt was uneventful. He offered to make pepper steaks at his place when we got back into town, but I declined and we parted company. I don’t think I ever saw him again, but in the course of the next year or so he made the student newspaper a few times, being featured for some incidents while in his cups at local pubs wherein allegedly he made some improper remarks to attractive Christian coeds. The papers did not quote what his remarks were, but the college made him take a course in sensitivity training, (or whatever they were calling it back then) enrolled him in some kind of a recovery program for his drinking. I had trouble thinking that he’d really earned that level of indignity. And I knew what Christian girls are often like and thought they’d blown the poor guy way out of proportion to his level of ‘offense’. I don’t think he ever hurt anybody, he was just lonely. And awkward. (Like me.) He died only a few years later. I’m glad I went with him that day. I had a good time and I liked the old guy.

 

===

Continued here - sorry, but reformatting for Spruz is a bitch.

http://greylining.wordpress.com/

• stop taking everything so seriously


• stop taking everything so personally


• stop assuming every comment that is posted is addressed to them personally


• lighten up


• grow a hide


• consider that perhaps a 100% of the problem is not always 100% of the other person's fault

- and watch yourself become an instant pariah. This is the converse of the sympathy violin game and where the real damage to online communities is done. The serial flounce subtly alters the forum ecology and silently introduces a tacit regime of censorship - the flounce insinuates itself as an endangered species deserving of special considerations and protections, and that the forum had better respect this or else.

If you have ever dared to openly criticise a flounce, you automatically become what is technically known in hip 'net lingo as an asshole. Assholes gravitate towards each other and you will inevitably come into contact with other assholes that have been similarly short in the appropriate sympathy stakes. The shared observations of assholes is that they feel like they are being forced to walk on eggshells, to deliberately dumb down what they say to remove any remote possibility of misinterpretation and offense, and that this exercise is largely futile because any flounce, once they have decided they will be offended will find some way to do so no matter what.

The effect on a community is corrosive - it ceases to be a free and open forum (assuming it even claimed to be one in the first place) and, if unchecked, "equality" of membership becomes a staggered heirarchy where the flouncers gravitate to the top to occupy a position of infallibility beyond criticism and the assholes settle to the bottom. Discourse ceases and it becomes largely an exercise of "me too!" groupthink, the assholes leave, with silent dignity noticed only by the remaining assholes who soon follow, leaving a community of uniform mediocrity where challenging boundaries has become taboo. This sad story plays itself out over and over and over and makes the 'net more like network teevee everyday.

What can you do about flounces? Well, a cost/benefit analysis is a good start. While many flounces can and do provide meaningful contributions to their communities, are those contributions of higher worth than the drama queen theatrics and the dumbing down of the community in general? To silence the contrarians and risk losing their participation? This is an easy trap to fall into - after all, the latter do not make so much noise when they vote with their feet and their loss is only apparent over time when discussion quality noticeably deteriorates.

And is anything really worth encouraging those with such emotional instability? Really, at the end of the day, this kind of behavior and emotional brinkmanship is not indicative of an intellect in full possession of itself. Flounces have an open-cut mining approach to the forums they habituate - they trawl through every last comment made and just assume everything revolves around them and is personally directed. In fact, if there are any flounces reading this, it is guaranteed that each, without exception, will assume this rant is directed personally at them and only them. Nevermind that I've lost count of the flounces I've seen around poisoning the 'net, or that I could list a dozen now without even thinking. Each one will believe that this is all about them and them only.

This is more than just a wee bit paranoid and narcissitic. It is not really the kind of personality you would want to invite into your flesh and blood life, so why have this idea that welcoming it into a community is going to have any net positive result? This too is foolish, Pollyannaist thinking. No good ever comes of flounces in the long term. Ultimately, they are just parasites that feed off emotion. If any real consideration is given back to the community, it is always going to be a secondary consideration. With the flounce, everything is "it's all about me!"

Being an asshole, I have a zero-tolerance attitude to flounces. I liken then to termites or tape-worms. Prevention is infinitely better than cure - they should not be allowed to take root in the first place. But if they do, let's get rid of this nauseating faux sympathy for them - it is the source of their sustenance, it's what they live for. Consider it all in the bigger picture. Flounces are never worth it. Ever. Don't even let them in the door.

http://greylining.wordpress.com/

          

 

"Within the overall context of the task of remembering, such colorful accounts of military spectacles and large-scale operations form what might be called the highlights of history which staggers blindly from one disaster to the next.  The chronicler, who was present at these events and is once more recalling what he witnessed, inscribes his experiences, in an act of self-mutilation, onto his own body.  In the writing, he becomes the martyred paradigm of the fate Providence has in store for us, and, though still alive, is already in the tomb that his memoirs represent" (256-257, Sebald: The Rings of Saturn).

March: The Solitude of Prime Numbers, by Paolo Giordano This book was alright as a fictional novel. It captures some aspects of borderline personalities, but I always felt as though it was a bit contrived (e.g., each character has an origin story explaining the genesis of their fucked-up personalities) and the level of writing was just barely enough to keep me reading to about 2/3 of the way through (I finished it out of an obligation to a friend).

April: The Pale King, by David Foster Wallace This book was great fun and also very interesting on multiple levels. This is DFW's unfinished novel so it offers a sort of look into his writing process which is, of course, fascinating. It is also a fictional novel about extreme boredom, the American Midwest, and the IRS. I think that as an unfinished project in trying to turn the overcoming of extreme boredom into a new kind of heroism it is equally as fascinating. One thing that has always fascinated me about science, but also great works of art, is that they often require vast amounts of tedious work to complete. However, this is actually true of work and perhaps life in general. In this novel, DFW was perhaps attempting to show the existential roots of boredom while also connecting it to contemporary US culture and civics. As is DFW's style the novel has notes (footnotes) and is a passionate (often humorous), extremely detailed, and highly thoughtful account of his fictional characters' internal lives. Admittedly, I love DFW's writing style and exuberance for fact-laden and humorous digressions.

May: Vertigo, by W.G. Sebald This book is a neat, and I believe early, novel by the recently deceased German writer Sebald. His style of writing is probably properly characterized as vertiginous at times so the title makes sense on multiple levels. Sebald mixes personal reflections and thoughts with detailed historical facts, re-imaginations of past events and historical figures, and his own travels through Europe. This novel captures the discontinuities that lead to various mental confusions between memories, knowledge, and present experience. "In the tram, Dr. K is suddenly convulsed by a violent aversion to Pick, because the latter has a small, unpleasant hole in his nature through which he sometimes creeps forth in his entirety, as Dr. K now observes" (143). Anyway, Sebald, in my opinion and as his later works clearly showed, carried on in the tradition of the great German writers of the 20th century. His works are translated into English by perhaps the greatest German translator at work today, Michael Hulse.

June: The Rings of Saturn, by W.G. Sebald I am almost finished reading this novel. It is in Sebald's distinctive almost stream of conscious style, but compared to Vertigo it is like a masterpiece. Where Vertigo relied on a sort of strange compulsion on the part of the reader to continue reading The Rings of Saturn requires no such compulsion. It is simply an amazing work of literary art and genius. One of the most fascinating novels I've ever read, if not the most fascinating. If you care at all about good literature you must read this book.  "Night, the astonishing, the stranger to all that is human, over the mountain-tops mournful and gleaming draws on" (173).

Oh, I forgot, Sebald's works involve pictures, like in the text, like actual pictures of things, photographs, etc.  
 

Podcast #95 is about a US version of the British tv show Skins.  Since my ex enjoyed the British version I had the benefit of comparison.  Or the displeasure of comparison.  They are both crappy shows, although it sounds like the US version might actually be less interesting.  Anyway, funny podcast.
 

The Age's reporting of Christian Religious Education

Those scheming and secretive Christians are trying to get our children. Well, so The Age thinks with its regular vindictive and vilifying prattle it is attempting to pass to us as journalism. I have lost count, but every week or so for the last couple of months, The Age is continuing its unjustified and unfair attack on Christian Religious Education (CRE) in schools and chaplaincy. The main target is the long-time established Access Ministries. The latest smear concerns the phrase used by Access Ministries head, which referred to making disciples of children. She was of course referring to words used by Jesus when he invited people to become his disciples. Now here are a few salient points:

Firstly, why shouldn’t children have the right to learn about Jesus and, if they so want, become a follower or, ready for it, a Christian? One example in The Age article refers to a child who ended up taking herself and her parents off to the local church after having CRE classes. Shock horror, call in the troops! A family heading off to church together? The Age thinks this is somehow sinister.

Secondly, we often hear about the need to understand and address the root causes of terrorism (another way of saying it is the West’s fault radical Islamists want to kill us). We also need to understand the root causes of religious fundamentalism. When a militant secular agenda is forced upon a society, like what The Age and its buddies at the Humanist Society are seeking, people of faith can move into a ghetto-like mentality. The way to avoid this is to have open and robust conversation about religion, kept alive, and not pushed to the margins.

An extended quote, I know, but I couldn't bring myself to edit it down. It would lose that special magic. In the article and the forum comments that follow, he even whines about the unfairness of it all, and even demands apologies from the more direct of his critics. It's beyond the pale. No acknowledgement of wrong doing, no mention of any of Access Ministries' vile behavior and conscious, premeditated deception, nor of the continuing siphoning of funding through what can only be called fraud - nothing. Completely shameless and howling about a conspiracy instigated and stage managed by The Age.

Nicholas, you are an incoherent buffoon. A shameless, criminal propagandist. Your picture needs to be placed in the dictionary under "sophistry". You leave me speechless, as does your commentary and blank faced denial that there is anything even slightly wrong here, and howling about how all you poor wee christians are being persecuted. This is what is at the heart of the matter - all of these people truly believe they have done nothing wrong. They know they have broken rules and engaged in despicable conduct, but deep down they still believe they have done nothing wrong. They believe they have some kind of divine covenant that abdicates them from any responsibility to behave ethically or within the law or within acceptable bounds of basic human decency. They believe that they are above all such petty terrestrial considerations. With 110% sincerity.

This is why these folks need to be purged entirely from the education system and barred from having any contact with minors ever again. They are complete, abject moral and ethical destitutes. And they believe that despite all this, they are right.

And the biggest cost here? It is how it will reflect on the humble believers out there, many who are equally nauseated by these goings on. But I am sorry folks, you have allowed these vipers to breed in your communities and congregations, you have allowed them to creep and take control of your public institutions. And now its all exploded in your face.

Seriously, if you have a shred of decency or dignity, this fiasco is not something you can blame on the secularists and atheists. The rot began at home. You are just going to have to deal with it.

[via grey lining]

¹ - Largely without noticeable protest from modest believers though, but that's another issue entirely.

² - The true surreal absurdity can be seen in the fact that Al Qaeda view the Taliban as "innovators" because their version of islam is not pure enough and therefore they are heretics - to be tolerated only in the short term as useful foot soldiers and diversions to drain US resources.

The Flop House's latest podcast features Nicholas Cage yet again.  Nothing like some good old fashioned raggin' on Nick Cage.  Good times again.

Trinity out.
 

• has occasion to equate other human beings to livestock


• is OK with murdering people because of cartoons


• believes it has an inalienable right to not be offended


• thinks the word "martyr" is not a synonym for "imbecile"


• believes it has a supernatural covenant to impose its standards on others


• whines about persecution when it doesn't get its way for any of the above

It's not an awful lot to ask for. It's a bare minimum you'd expect from your neighbours and a bare minimum you'd expect for a functional, livable society. What is the problem about using it as an admission requirement when seeking asylum?

Well, the problem is what can only be called "white man disease". An endless, gnawing guilt and fear of appearing culturally insensitive. And the bugbear in the room here is a big one - religion. We're not allowed to discriminate on that basis¹. Yet without actually having to say so, anybody that has read this far knows clearly and unambiguously which religion is being drawn into question.

But it begs the question: How is it that practitioners of that faith can claim to be moderate, egalitarian and civilised members of society - yet be unwilling or incapable of denouncing the barbarism that is the rule of law in the very same theocracies they are seeking asylum from? Push come to shove, and the most reasonable follower of the faith will skirt the question of death threats and actual murders of western critics, artistic and intellectual, with the noxious idea that if they did not "disrespect" the faith there would be harmony. And the greater mass of the liberal humanist left just swallows it hook, line and sinker - then turns around and calls folks like Pat Condell racist.

It is a religion that is a broken relic of an age that should be consigned to history and never revisited. Yet the squeamishness of its adherents at the thought of grabbing it by the horns and wrestling it into the modern world prevents this from happening. Well, if that's going to be the case, so be it. You can just do a U-ey and go home. Bugger it. As for the apostates, I welcome you with open arms. The more of you guys the merrier. I'll not only hold the gate open for you, I'll make sure it doesn't hit your ass on the way in. Now what was that about racism again? If that accusation is still to hold any water, it's going to need a definition re-write.

            

¹ - It is quite nauseating that those that love playing the "racism" and "islamophobia" cards can conveniently overlook the fact that states like Malaysia actively and openly discriminate against non-muslims for matters citizenship, residency and marriage.

Footnote - Winston Churchill nailed it well over a century ago.

"It's not unlike the religious confidence that one is 'loved unconditionally' by God - as the God in question is defined as something that loves this way automatically and universally, it doesn't seem to really have anything to do with you, so it's hard to see why religious people claim to feel such reassurance in being loved this way by God." Page 209.

 

[tried to repair this post as best I could with this piece of shit widget. The unmangled version is here]

Poe's Law

From RationalWiki

 

Poe's Law states:^[1]

Without a winking smiley or other blatant display of humor, it is impossible to create a parody of Fundamentalism that SOMEONE won't mistake for the real thing.

”

Poe's Law is an axiom suggesting that it's difficult to distinguish between parodies of religious fundamentalism (or, more generally, parodies of any crackpot or extremist belief) and genuine proponents of religious fundamentalism, since they both seem equally insane. Conversely, real fundamentalism can easily be mistaken for a parody of fundamentalism. For example, some conservatives consider noted homophobe Fred Phelps to be so over-the-top that they argue he's a "deep cover liberal" trying to discredit more mainstream homophobes. [full article]

Poe's Law was birthed in August 2005 by Nathan Poe, purportedly in this post on Christian Forums. Poe's Law really needs to be complemented by Felch's First Law -

"Atheist" and "stupid" are not mutually exclusive

The truly bizarre thing about Poe is, despite being a prized tool in the godless counter-terrorism arsenal, the overwhelming majority of those taken in by well crafted Poe are atheists... Actually, that's more depressing than bizarre - by far the more difficult battle is that against the dumbness within than that which is without.

Populism comes at a price - greater atheism has chosen to embrace it, and while superficially it is grass-roots and egalitarian, the hidden demons within any populist movement are invariably tinged with anti-intellectualism¹ and reactionary bogus morality every bit as stupid and puritanical (in its own ways)² as any theistic movement.

Both the stupidity and the nauseating displays of faux morality within what calls itself the "atheist community" reached its nadir this week all because of some silly little girl that goes went by the Youtube handle of TamTamPamela and a video she posted about praying for god to smite atheists and then thanking him for the Japanese earthquake.

This is the extended play version that has been preserved by Thunderf00t on his Youtube channel. She kicks in at 2:36³ after what I assume is his preamble framing the context -



.
and there is also some extra content at the end that is particularly relevant. Thunderf00t's very first comment is -

Now to an extent the mere fact if this girl is for real or not is irrelevant. The mere fact that you cannot tell shows just how messed up this is.

To even pause and question this point was lost in the immediate reaction from the overwhelming majority of the atheists viewing this vid. He then proceeds to cite both Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson making worse comments about 9/11 just two days after the attacks to underscore the point that reality is about as deranged as you can get.

Now I do not know if Thunderf00t was the first to express skepticism or not about Pamela's religiosity, but he posted his vid around the same time as the first expressions of outrage began flooding every social media outlet there is. And the outrage was as predictable as that of the god freaks whenever the latest item in the ongoing War on Christmas surfaces. In other words, it was a fucking tape loop. Pavlovian dogs slobbering uncontrollably at pre-conditioned stimulus. This is par for the course -

This Christian bitch is happy that over 10,000 people died. She is pure evil

Zero thought, maximum reaction. Dumb animals recoiling from flame. That was just the first to splatter across my screen - it was by no means the loudest nor the dumbest either. But the outrage, largely impersonal and dispersed against fundamentalist theism as a whole soon changed to an anger and hostility that was very personal and direct once the cat was out of the bag and everyone was left looking very foolish. "Hatred" is in fact closer to the mark (though it is denied) - from "enlightened" atheists who are nothing at all like their loathsome theist counterparts. Not at all, nosirreebob. Not. At. All.

You have to bear in mind that xtians didn't jump on the lets-lynch-Pamela bandwagon immediately (which says a lot about them - if she was sincere, she was apparently acceptable). It was not until the fact she was a Poe had been blasted out on the web to the point that it penetrated even their brutish consciousness that they added their voices to the chorus of outrage. Bearing that in mind, atheists cannot plead innocent to behaving like a violent mob by -

• publicising her home address and phone number


• mass ordering pizza and other home delivery food


• threatening her with death


• telling her she deserves to get raped


• telling people to send her feces in the mail

and most of the ones that did not participate in these direct actions of holy vengeance just babbled incoherently much like this (again, far from the worst and entirely sic) -

Colin Rogers what a air head freak of nature, plant her under a falling building or colapsing tunnle or sunammie, dont think that spelt right but you get the message

Rocket scientists at play. As repugnant as all of these histrionics are, nothing nauseated me quite like the following rational diagnosis -

this is a brainless little twit who went way over the line - although I suspect from her comments as NMEI

Obscure acronym, more a mutant appeal to authority of the "shut up and don't question; I'm smarter than you, I know more complex terminology" variety, implying that Pamela is not normal, she has a form of myoclonic epilepsy. This is just plain obscene.

All of the religions, even buddhism, when faced with behaviour that is beyond the limits of their comprehension, and therefore alien and an aberration, conjure up demons and explain it all away as demonic possession. Atheists have no supernatural horde to summon at their convenience. It matters not. Who needs them when you have neurology and psychiatry? This is becoming far too regular an occurance⁴. Though they have no gods, they still have the ancestral urges to demonise the other which they are incapable of comprehending by implying neurological disorder. It is lame. It is pseudo-religious derangement.

As for Pamela's crime itself - that is lost on me. But then again, I have no desperate neo-puritan need to proclaim my decency and humanity in loud shrieking tones in very public places to anyone who will listen. When I saw Pamela's video (brand me a heretic), I didn't see laughter at the Japanese dead nor their mourning survivors. I saw Pat Robertson proclaiming Haiti "Cursed" After "Pact to the Devil". That I expected my fellow godless to likewise make this connection is yet another instance of my inviting disappointment by overestimating median intellect. Even so, let us assume she was deliberately using the Japanese tragedy as her first cause for mockery - she was still making fun of the religious, not the victims - and it is still lost on me. This is what Poe is. To highlight the monstrous, absurd derangement of the theistic mind.

Pamela came up with a piece of performance art. Scripting, 2.5/5 - meh. Not that particularly great or thought out, but it was making a very real and valid point. Execution, 4.5/5. Excellent. Believable (proven over and over and over). Extremely well done. And it is art, as per the fitting definition given by the cesspit of lies -

Art is the product or process of deliberately arranging items (often with symbolic significance) in a way that influences and affects one or more of the senses, emotions, and intellect.

It is also art by the other definition: an act of trickery or cunning. It can in fact be called classic Cynic street theatre that would not have been out of place in Athens over two millenia ago. It strove to, and succeeded, in blowing away the typhos and exposing the true essence of the audience, turning the tables and placing them on stage, denuded in all their glory for all to see. And behold! What do we see?

With the theists it derides, we can assume most folks get it. If you don't, go read some Hitchens. But it casts a rather unflattering light on the atheist coal face - those that claim to represent us vociferously in the visible and public world of social media. What we can see quite plainly is -

• Most aren't exactly the sharpest knives in the drawer, despite claiming the high ground of intellectual exceptionalism after decorating their coffee tables with the scribblings of the New Atheism (read or unread)


• Beneath the glossy sheen of "enlightened" and "evolved" humanism / liberalism is one really nasty, spiteful, humourless and vicious bitch who's temper is real old school old testament - especially when it is the butt of the joke


• What can only be described as the uncontrollable puritan impulse - the same sanctimonious, finger-pointing, moral panic ridden, shame obsessed wowserism that populates talk-back radio and Oprah studio audiences. We demand the right to be offended.

Face it, Pamela's 15 minutes of fame simply aren't that big a deal. Her humour was tasteless, yes. So what? Since when is that a crime? And if you are that hypersensitive, Derek & Clive laughing it up about cancer would be fatal. So would Piss Christ.

There is no reason or logic here at all - we are looking at a very large number of people that are trapped by the vestiges of their puritan roots and can't let go, or worse, have an atavistic yearning to return to the days where shame ruled every minute action. These folks not only demand the right to be deeply offended, they feel duty bound to do so, and are compelled to engage in a vile game of one-upmanship to see who can put on the greatest display of outrage. It's all so church-like I want to vomit.

This sour taste is not something that can be easily washed away, if at all. I think atheism can now be consigned to the long list of other -isms that have been broken beyond redemption and no longer have any relation to their basic meaning - liberalism, conservatism, libertarianism, feminism... - by being loaded up with all manner of ideological baggage and irrelevant nonsense. It's a long, long list.


And the puritans can rest content and congratulate themselves on a job well done. They have succeeded in driving Pamela from the web.

I hope you all feel proud of yourselves.

PS - Pamela, I'm still happy to be your friend.

⁰ - Bastardised LotR quote.

¹ -Yes they cling to science, but far too many cling to it as though it's scripture to be rote learned without making any real effort to gain understanding. The anti-intellectualism though is generally more of the kind of elite-ophobia seen in segments of the conservative right, and is in itself extremely conservative. Populist atheism has no stomach for nuanced language or complex, heretical concepts. Like Poe.

² - Whilst superficially atheism claims to be enlightened, non-judgemental and egalitarian, the state of the nation now is one of general hysteria. While the dust religions primarily obsess about gender roles and human sexuality and atheism claims to be free of this nonsense, atheist puritanism manifests itself in a myriad of other ways - hypersensitive reactionary sexism (analysing every word and inflection), food politics (the fucking vegans of course), porn and adult sex work, and very noticably, the issues of alcohol and drugs, boasting large numbers of rabid teetotallers who in Temperance Union fashion decry anyone who partakes as a moral failure (and correspondingly, that the abstainers are some kind of master race).

³ - Just for a laugh, and also because I am a great believer in inexplicable quantum sarcasm, I punched "bible 2:36" into google and it ralphed up Acts 2:36 -

“Therefore let all Israel be assured of this: God has made this Jesus, whom you crucified, both Lord and Messiah.”

I am easily amused.

⁴ -It is actually appalling how often this happens - the more you look for it the more you will see it. Some atheist Dunning-Krugerite up on a pedestal condemning someone over some kind of, invariably, moral shortcoming, and for lack of coherent reasoning to explain their positions, will fall back to accusations of neurological disorder. It is pretty disgusting. The godless equivalent of "sorceror" or "witch".

Once there was this guy named Street Jude. He had a penny as big as a dinner plate, which he wore on a string around his neck, so he could have it handy for, well, dinner, in case anybody should decide to feed him. He also had a mess of frickin’ awesome dreadlocks. Unfortunately the ‘locks over time accrued some thorns and brambles and whatnot, which chafed painfully, and would even sometimes lacerate him—and others—if the utmost care and precautions were not followed.

This is Street Jude’s girlfriend, also known as Eduoarda Flashlighthands. Why they hooked up together in the first place was they figured out if she bounced her handlights off his giant penny so the rays ignited all his hair on fire, the brambles burnt all up into a fine-ish powder, which when mixed with water, they found they could make a handsome living bottling it to peddle as an uplifting beverage. Hey, Street Jude wasn’t going to kick her out of bed for that.

Over time, however, Eduoarda Milagrosa’s flashlight beams proved caustic unto Street Jude’s tender areas. Most especially, the palms of his hands developed open sores, which he did not like. Also, the beams mutated his fingertips—they became highly specialized, sensitive, with delicate and intuitive powers all their own, which Eduoarda DID like, on account of they seemed to have a certain rapport and caressiveness, when it came time for plying her with intimacies.

Eventually, Street Jude had to break it off with Eduoarda. It was pretty sad for both of them—they really loved each other so. But the rash was just too bad. Street Jude went out into the wilderness, giving up all hope, and preparing to die. A healthy, vigorously selfish cowboy tried to steal Street’s best red sheet while he was there. But he gave it back when he saw the skin condition Street Jude had.

Finally some dogs came upon poor Street Jude, seeking succor from his wounds, which by now could be smelled from miles around. But just then an amazing thing happened! The wounds began to quickly heal. It turns out dog spit is absolutely loaded with as-yet-lazily-unisolated-by-science curative enzymes. Street Jude came back from the wilderness and changed his name to Lazaro so that ‘Mother’ Flashlighthands could never find him again to resume their relationship.

Many years later, Lazaro finally hooked up with another chick. By now Lazaro was thinning out a bit up top, so hair thorns weren’t so much of an issue this time ‘round. No one knew what the new chick’s name was, which was annoying, and inconvenient. And she made Lazaro let her wear the red sheet all the time instead of him; and he had to constantly strew fresh rose bouquets all ‘round about her feet—or else. But other than that she was reasonably agreeable. And she bore Lazaro a fine fat son who was the delight of their old age. The son prob’ly had the worst of the deal, in those exact genetics, as he was unluckily also afflicted with unusual hair growth patterns. His main problem area though was from 2 ungainly tufts of hair emerging from his scapulas, that looked like wings. The taunting was severe. Until his friends all realized he had trained his mom to let him—and his friends if they played their cards right—gaze fondly up her skirt whenever they were so inclined.

As for Eduoarda, do not mourn too much for her, my people. She did grieve most abundantly, but moved promptly on, enjoying her powers over the course of a luminous, contributive career; and over a long succession of post-Street-Jude, most deserving helpmeets. Hey, verily, having flashlighthands ain’t all that much to sneeze at. No one can diminish that should they be destitute enough to try.

~ finis ~